


Camp Sweetgum

by onawingandaswear



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Camp Counselor Bitty, Drunk Zimmmerparents, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Jack's family summers on the same lake Bitty works as a counselor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Pre-Canon Zimbits, Recluse Jack, Summer Romance, Year One, Year Two, this story takes place the summers before and after OMGCP Year One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25487923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear
Summary: Camp Sweetgum shares lakefront with a private resort and senior counselor Eric Bittle is used to wealthy, entitled people wandering into his camp. (He isn’t used to them awkwardly hitting on him, though.)A story about botched summer romances, misunderstandings, and enabling parents.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 83
Kudos: 465





	Camp Sweetgum

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This fic was started on Tumblr but is in its complete, finished form here. There is a NSFW shower scene toward the end. Thank you for reading!!

“Hello?”

Eric looks up from the mess he’s cleaning out of the bottom of a pee-wee canoe to find a man waving awkwardly. The glare from the lake is enough to mask any discerning features, but Eric can definitely make out a thick accent.

“Hi. One of your, ah, campers? I think left this oar near the water polo court?”

The man comes into focus and Eric realizes he’s younger than he sounds, the hair on his head floppy and overgrown, softening his sharp features and oddly bright eyes. Eric can’t recall the last time he’d encountered someone with such light blue eyes, if he ever has; and the realization comes with a flutter low in his stomach; a flutter Eric always tries very hard to ignore when he’s working.

“Oh, bless,” Eric sighs, rinsing his hands in the lake to clear any lingering gunk. “Thank you for bringing it back, we lost three oars yesterday! I hope we didn’t interrupt your vacation?”

“No worries,” the man says, smile half-timid. “I saw the kids playing and should have said something before they left it behind. So, bleach, eh?”

Eric looks down at the bucket and rag, realizes he hasn’t spoken aloud recently enough for this to be a real conversation and takes steps to amend the problem.

“How else are supposed to determine what campers get motion sickness?” Eric offers with some measure of levity. “What’s life without a little mess?”

“Are you a counselor?”

“Caught me,” Eric balances the plastic bucket as he steps out of the canoe onto the pier, trying not to stain his shirt when the bleach solution splashes over the edge. “You’re looking at a certified Sweetgum Senior Counselor. Why? Looking for a summer job? We need a cook if you’re halfway decent in the kitchen.”

He’s only half joking. Eric doesn’t have the authority to hire anyone, but they do need a new chef, and there’s very little Eric enjoys more than knocking rich guys from across the lake down a peg. Even if they’re cute.

“No thanks, I’m just on vacation,” the guy points over his shoulder at the resort on the opposite side of the lake, completely missing Eric’s sass. “But I’ll keep that in mind. I’m good with kids, I used to coach bantam hockey.”

“Used to?”

“I’m going back to college this fall,” he shrugs, bending low to rest the oar in the sand. At this angle, the man shares a familiar, slightly bowlegged stance with some of Eric’s lifer teammates; the good ones who’ve played ice hockey as long as Eric’s known how to walk. At this angle, it’s also near impossible to miss the impressive glutes padding out his shorts. “It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

It takes a moment for Eric to realize what the guy is talking about, but then he notices the way he’s looking at the bunk buildings behind Eric.

“Oh, you mean how there’s a middle-income summer camp next door to a super secret private resort? Believe me, I know. Half my job is making sure tech billionaires on speedboats don’t accidentally mow down our campers.”

The words are out before Eric has time to think, and the man’s pale cheeks flush pink, which Eric only notices because he’s already so pale. Who spends their summer at a lake resort and doesn’t tan?

“I don’t like the speedboats,” the guy offers. “I mostly golf with my dad. Fishing is cool, too.”

“Well I appreciate you not murdering my kids.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stand in silence for a few moments, Eric waiting for his visitor to do something, anything other than awkwardly hover while Eric’s campers scream and play a short ways away.

“Well, thank you for the oar,” Eric says, opening the door on the end of their conversation so this hottie can escape. “You feel like coming by the snack shack, I’d be happy to reward you with the candy bar of your choosing.”

“Thanks. I’m conditioning, so I can’t.”

Eric’s used to rich kids sneaking across the lake to play pranks and be generally unworthy of any measure of kindness, but this is new. This boy, this hockey player, has accomplished his mission of returning a missing camp item, he’s made small talk, and rejected Eric’s thank you offer outright, and yet, he isn’t leaving.

“Is there anything else you needed?” Eric asks. “You’re welcome to help me clean.”

Pale, blue-eyed hottie actually scuffs his heel into the sand.

“Yes?”

“I just . . . saw a sniper scrubbing puke out of boat and thought I’d say hello.”

The guy looks properly chastened the moment the words leave his mouth. Eric suddenly gets it. This is not the first time someone’s mistaken him for a girl at a distance, especially when he’s wearing his swim shorts; figure skating did wonders for his coordination, it also gave him the ass and thighs of a co-ed. One day, a boy will hit on Eric from behind and actually be interested in what’s happening on the front end as well, but that’s a day he’s saving for his new college up north, the one with a much healthier gay-straight ratio.

“No stress,” Eric forces a smile. “It’s an easy mistake. You aren’t the first guy to clock me at a thousand yards. Happens all the time.”

Blue-eyes blushes hard and looks away.

“I-I didn’t,” he stammers. “I’m sorry, I should go. Thanks for . . . don’t ruin your clothes.”

Eric waves halfheartedly as the man departs, walking quickly to the wooded path before breaking into a sprint the second he thinks Eric can’t see him any longer. When he disappears from sight, Eric adds another tally to his mental ‘sexuality crisis’ checklist.

“Stupid boys.” Eric sighs, giving up on appearances as he dumps the remaining contents of the bleach bucket into the canoe.

* * *

Eric stands with the rest of the freshman, clutching his stick like a lifeline as he stares down the much larger upperclassmen, including one Junior with startlingly bright blue eyes and a scowl that tells Eric all he needs to know about how much he remembers of their meeting a short few weeks earlier.

When Eric gets a moment alone with ‘Jack’ in the locker room, his captain — _oh, lord_ —dismisses him outright, and Eric takes the hint in a big way.

Eric steels himself for a long year, but after a few weeks struggling with his contact issues through the preseason, Jack steps up. Again, there is no mention of the Summer, or Sweetgum, just early morning checking practices, plenty of fresh bruises, and Jack’s near clockwork mood-swings.

By the end of the year, after one concussion and one sincere apology on the part of Eric’s captain-turned-friend, Eric has pushed Jack’s awkward summer flirting out of his mind; the story relegated to anecdotal status. Possibly suitable for use at a Haus party in a few years, but not while Jack’s still at Samwell on track for NHL stardom.

At least, that’s the plan until Eric returns to Sweetgum late July and finds Jack waiting at the dock in board shorts and a loose tank top, showing off a much needed tan. From behind, Bitty can make out Penguins logo on his snapback, and has to determine quickly if the hat is a holdover from his father’s time on the team or a sign of things to come.

“Look at you, Cap!” Bitty calls lightly, whistling when Jack spins around for the source of the noise. “Back down for the summer?”

“Few weeks,” Jack grins, padding across the weathered wood to meet Bitty with a one-armed hug and the barest tousling of hair. “Still counseling?”

“Oh, forever and ever. They even pay me now.”

“I like your haircut,” Jack gestures at the back of his own head when they separate, as if he’s the one sporting the undercut. “It suits you. I bet you’ll get a lot more air under your helmet, now.”

“Less high school graduate, more college sophomore,” Bitty agrees cheerily, doing a spin for Jack. “Lot harder to mistake me for a girl now, huh?”

Bitty’s expecting Jack to balk at the minor mention of their meeting the summer prior, but he just whistles low and nods in jerky approval.

“Yeah, so, about that, I actually need to come clean about last summer, but it stays here,” Jack swallows, gaze downturned briefly. “No telling the guys. Or anyone.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Bitty rushes. “I wasn’t kidding, it happens all the time.”

“I need to apologize.”

“Why?”

Jack casts his gaze to the sky, steeling himself to a degree that Bitty wonders if he’s going to admit to a crime.

“Because I took it out on you on the ice,” Jack says finally. "Holster’s got a thing about getting into corners. If Ransom plays too many minutes he makes bad calls in the third, Johannsen won’t rush the neutral zone. You had a contact issue. It happens. We all have blocks, but I called you out for yours and made you want to quit. It was shitty.”

“You already apologized for this,” Bitty points out. “Not that I’m not flattered to get a doubly-sincere apology.”

“I was hard on you because you shut me down last year,” Jack says, exasperated, tugging off his cap to put it on correctly, bill obscuring his eyes. “Not because you can’t _play_.”

“Kinda gathered that already. You thought I was a girl.”

“No, you _thought_ I thought that,” Jack chuffs. “I didn’t. I’d seen you on the lake without a shirt, I knew you were a guy, Bittle.”

“Maybe you thought I was just flat chested.”

“No, that morning you were on the lake and I watched you on the pier, hoping you’d swim— “ Jack’s cuts himself off, lips curling into a self-deprecating sneer. “Yeah. I knew you were a guy.”

Bitty rests his hands on his hips and looks out over the water, considering the possibility that Jack is playing some elaborate prank, but dismisses the notion when he realizes there’s no payoff; and it isn’t like Jack hasn’t proven to be above this kind of behavior himself. He doesn’t joke. Not about himself.

“Okay. So, you’re telling me you knew full well you were flirting with a red-blooded _me_?”

Jack nods, lips set in a hard line as he resolutely does not meet Bitty’s eyes.

“A boy.”

_“Ouais.”_

“Huh. So, you aren’t . . . strictly straight?”

Jack shrugs, a physical representation of Bitty’s own cluelessness of where to go in the conversation. Last year at this time, Jack Zimmermann walked all the way around the lake to Sweetgum to try and hit on Bitty; and Bitty, clueless gay he was, completely misread the situation, leading to nearly a full semester of razzing by his butt-hurt hockey captain.

“Wait, when you said you were waiting to see me on the pier, you were hoping my pants would get wet weren’t you? Jack! That’s skeevy! There are kids here!”

Bitty isn’t serious, but he has so few opportunities to legitimately chirp his captain-turned-friend-turned-crush that he can’t help the pot-shot.

“Oh, like you wouldn’t look if walked out of the lake in boxer-briefs sticking to my junk,” Jack scoffs, cheeks still flaming. “Your shirt said ‘Senior Counselor’, you have to be at least 18 for that.”

When Bitty’s giggles subside, they’re left right where they started: An awkward admission of affection and no clear path forward. Bitty scratches at a mosquito bite on his arm as Jack fidgets.

“So what now? Are you still not-straight? About me?”

“I imagined this going differently,” Jack admits. “You kept my secret the whole year, even when you had no reason to. So, I’m just going to come out and say it: I’m still interested. How do you feel about a summer fling?”

The phrasing is unwieldy on Jack’s tongue, like he’s still unsure of the proper wording but Bitty suspects the hesitation it isn’t just because of his accent.

“Would that make things awkward next season?” Bitty asks, his heart in his throat as his mind runs away with ideas of what that kind of an arrangement would mean for his sidelined libido. “And what about all your, um, ‘prospects’?”

Jack’s eyes flash in a manner that screams _‘yes, this will absolutely be a problem’_ , but he shakes his head all the same.

“I can compartmentalize. What about you?”

“I can keep a secret.” Bitty insists, not certain why he’s agreeing to anything given the tightness in his chest. “As you know. But this feels bigger than just, _that_.”

Jack squares up, looming large over Bitty, the details of his expression lost in the blinding sunlight, and Bitty feels the press of Jack’s lips against his own before he realizes the man’s moved at all. Without thinking, Bitty lifts his hands, bracing himself on Jack’s biceps, leaning into the warmth of his first kiss as Jack holds him steady, with far more care than Bitty would expect to kickoff a raucous ‘summer fling’.

The whole moment is picture perfect and Bitty’s mind won’t stop running away with the thought that this is the first and best kiss he’s ever received, from the last person he ever expected to deliver it. On a pier in the late afternoon sun, held by a handsome acquaintance who’s just admitted longstanding feelings; it’s downright romantic. It’s Hallmark picture-perfect, and by the time Bitty’s present enough to enjoy the moment, it’s already over.

“There’s a nice _‘how do you do’_ ,” Bitty sighs when they part, only the teeniest bit dazed. “You’re real good at that.”

“Yeah, you’re not.” Jack chirps reflexively, immediately backpedaling an apology when he realizes what he’s done.

“Excuse you,” Bitty smacks Jack in the chest. “That was my first kiss.”

Jack pales.

“Don’t get cold feet now,” Bitty chastises. “Mister ‘ _summer fling_ ’.”

“Not that, I just, I thought you were with that one guy from Theater? Winter Screw?”

It takes a moment for Bitty to recall what Jack might be talking about.

“What, David?”

“I saw you at Annies after. You seemed friendly.”

“He bought me a coffee a few times to apologize, cover the cost of my lost loafers, but that was it,” Bitty explains, realizing Jack knows a hell of a lot more than he probably should about Bitty’s main dating misfire. Damningly, Jack isn’t pale anymore, his cheeks are even a little flushed. “Were you keeping tabs on me?”

_“No.”_

“You were!”

Everything about this moment should be humorous, but the moment Bitty’s giddiness subsides he’s left with the realization that Jack’s just admitted to harboring an attraction to Bitty for the last year, and Bitty, damningly, has been tending his own burgeoning feelings for at least a few months (if he’s honest with himself, who isn’t attracted to Jack Zimmermann just a little bit?). Either way, he has no idea how to deal with that information, and from Jack’s guarded posture, he’d say his would-be paramour is in a similar position.

“Oh,” Bitty swallows, unsure of where to look or what to do with his hands. “So, this is . . .What do we do now?”

Jack’s expression takes a determined slant.

“We could . . . keep kissing. Practice until you’re better at it.”

“Just until I’m better. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“But we’re going to talk about this later, right?” Bitty lowers his voice, even though there’s no one around to overhear them, the campers are still nearly a week from arriving. “You and I?”

Jack nods jerkily, wincing at his own enthusiasm.

“Think we’re going to have to.”

* * *

The timer on Bitty’s phone goes off and Jack breaks their kiss to spit a string of extremely vulgar, extremely French curses.

“Oh, hush, you’re so _rude_ ,” Bitty groans, rolling off the bed and hopping to get the stiffness out of his legs, dodging Jack’s attempt to grope his ass as he bounces. “One of these sweet babies is going to swallow a gallon of lake water while I’m in here swallowing your tongue.”

“If I fall in the lake, will you give me mouth to mouth?” Jack teases, leaning against the headboard, hair mussed, and his tank top shoved up so high Bitty can see the dusting of dark hair between the man’s pecs.

This version of Jack Zimmermann is so far removed from the surly hockey player Bitty knew at Samwell, he might as well be another person. Not for the first time since they started this arrangement, only a few days earlier, Bitty wonders what this dynamic shift will actually mean. In a few weeks, they’ll both be back in Massachusetts, living in the same Haus, playing on the same line, pretending they didn’t spend a whole week necking at every opportunity.

“No.” Bitty announces decisively. “You can drown unkissed.”

Jack puts a hand over his heart and only then does Bitty notice the bulge in Jack’s shorts; he feels his cheeks go warm, or warmer, and Jack’s lackadaisical smile levels out as he follows Bitty’s eye-line to his own groin and stares for a second, before checking to see if Bitty’s situation is anything similar. To his horror, Bitty realizes he’s feeling warm somewhere else, too.

“Hi.” Jack says.

“Hello.” Bitty shifts slowly, crossing his hands over his groin. Jack’s shoulders shake in silent laughter.

“C’mere, it’s fine,” Jack gestures, beckoning Bitty to the side of the bed. “Would you like some help with that?”

Bitty almost shakes his head, forgetting himself and the scenario he’s currently in, but then his brain comes back online.

“Help how?”

Jack lifts his right hand and makes a familiar, if crude gesture. When Bitty doesn’t immediately react, he then moves his half-curled fist close to his mouth, offering another option. Bitty is dumbfounded at every aspect of the offer: he’s shocked by Jack’s forwardness, stunned by his own interest, and at an utter loss at what to do next.

“I’m not ready to do that.” Bitty admits guiltily, trying not to think about how many times in the last four days he’s stuck a hand down his shorts the moment Jack was out of sight. “I think I’m good. I’m sorry.”

There is little more in the world Bitty wants than to be able to claim he’s no longer a virgin, patriarchal construct that the concept is or not, but he also doesn’t trust himself to keep the boundaries they’ve discussed intact.

“Don’t be sorry,” Jack pulls himself upright, crossing his legs beneath him and (accidentally) making his interest in Bitty more pronounced. “I’m not looking for an even exchange, but I am offering. If that makes any difference.”

“Can you be really clear?” Bitty asks, worried he’s leaving too much room for misinterpretation. Jack looks at him thoughtfully, fondly, and smiles.

“Ha, Shitty’s my friend, too. Eric Bittle, I would like to touch you intimately, and you do not need to reciprocate unless you feel you’d like to. Though I would appreciate returned interest.”

Bitty covers his flaming face with his hands and Jack begins to laugh.

“It’s not funny,” Bitty admonishes, swatting at Jack blindly. “I’m nervous. I want my first time to mean something or else I’d have done it already.”

“Hey. Don’t be nervous. You want to stop, we stop,” there’s a soft edge to Jack’s tone, a familiar seriousness that tells Bitty they’ve stepped out of playful ribbing and into real boundary negotiation. “And as far as the other thing we don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready for.”

“I didn’t mean this isn’t special,” Bitty apologizes, picking up on the mild hurt in Jack’s tone. “You’re very special, I just don’t want to get invested if this is something we’re never speaking of again after next week, or if it means I have to sign an NDA when you blow up and get famous.”

“I’d never make you do that,” Jack sobers, shoulders tensing as he straightens up. “Sign anything. Or whatever.”

“Then, what is this?” Bitty asks, his late night reservations taking hold of his tongue. “I don’t think you have ‘ _flings_ ’ with people you’re going to see again, and we have to spend another year together. _Playing_ together. We can’t date at Samwell.”

Bitty glances out the cabin window at the glistening lake, taking a moment to gather his thoughts, and to allow Jack a moment to recover himself. Though he’s little more than a mother hen to the junior counselors, Bitty needs to get back to his campers. He has a job to do and he’s in here, with a ‘straight’ boy, negotiating what could be a very tense, complicated, secretly shameful relationship. Bitty realizes suddenly that there’s no way for this to end well, at least for himself. Jack will be fine. Jack will be famous, rich — he’ll find some gorgeous wife and have everything he’s ever dreamed of. Maybe he’ll come out as bisexual in his 50s, when his career is long dead, but there’s no reality where Bitty’s a part of the equation.

Coach always used to caution, _‘Don’t date a girl you can’t see yourself marrying,’_ and while the sentiment was more about accidentally knocking up another figure skater, Bitty can’t imagine a life with the handsome, awkward boy laid out before him.

“Maybe we rushed into things,” Bitty admits, turning back to Jack. “I think — “

The words die on his tongue. A few months ago, Bitty wouldn’t have been able to recognize the expression on Jack’s face as anything other than game-ready stoicism, but that was before Bitty ended up with a concussion; after which Jack had stormed into the trainer’s room after the game, flushed, angry, and _wounded_. Jack moves to stand, adjusting his rucked shirt as he rises, smoothing his shorts for good measure.

“No, yeah,” Jack clears his throat. “You’re right. It’s probably a good idea to curb this before things get too weird. Don’t want to fuck up the season, right?”

“Right.” Bitty echoes lamely, watching Jack collect his things. “You don’t have to —“

“No, I should just go,” Jack interrupts icily. “This was a mistake. You were right.”

There’s nothing further to be said. Bitty watches Jack leave, not even attempting to sneak back behind the cabins like with their previous clandestine meetings; they’re ‘friends’ again, so there’s nothing to hide.

Doesn’t keep Bitty from going back inside and crying over his first break-up.

* * *

At dusk, Bitty trades his curfew check shift with Adrienne and grabs a flashlight from the supply cabin. He knows the woods well enough to track down wayward campers in the night, but he’s never purposefully gone far enough around the lake that the unkempt dirt path starts to become more even and clear, eventually widening into a groomed, maintained walking path lined with soft lanterns. Eventually, Bitty comes out of the woods onto a sprawling grassy field dotted with lounge chairs and small glowing fire pits. A few guests look his direction, curious of the young man emerging from the trees, but no one moves. Clearly his cargo shorts and teal blue shirt emblazoned ‘Senior Counselor’ have reassured the one percenters that Bitty is not an immediate safety threat.

While Bitty still half expects security to pop out of nowhere and escort him away, he makes it all the way to the main pool pavilion without incident. He looks around for direction signs, or any indication of where the private cabins might be located, and locks eyes with an attractive blonde woman watching him curiously, her glass of red wine half-empty and glinting in the firelight like something sinister. She waves at him with loose-jointed assuredness, a small gesture he wouldn’t catch if he wasn’t looking directly at her. Bitty goes to her, figuring he’s been made, and because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Aren’t you a cutie,” she greets lazily, showing her inebriation. “Oh, Bobby, look, it’s . . . I think it’s Jack’s friend Brittle.”

“Eric Bittle,” the man beside her corrects lazily, voice slurred with wine and a familiar French-Canadian lilt. _“Quinze.”_

Bitty recognizes his own number and fights a grin, rising onto his tip-toes to find Mr. Bad Bob Zimmermann, sprawled flat on a lounge chair, eyes shut against the dim light, at least as boneless and drunk as his wife, who Bitty now realizes must be Alicia.

“Hello, Mr. Bob, Mrs. Jack’s Mom,” Bitty keeps his voice low as Alicia kicks into a fit of giggles. “I hate to be a bother, but have you seen Jack? I was hoping to talk to him.”

Bob silently lifts his arm straight up in the air, at a 90-degree angle, drops his wrist and points a finger deftly toward a walking path leading to another building. Alicia fumbles in her pocket and offers Bitty a silver key-fob.

“Bungalow 3. Up the steps and to the right.” Alicia offers. Bitty watches Bob flash a thumbs up before dropping his arm flat against the chair cushion. “I’m so glad you came by, Jack’s been moping all afternoon, and I was sure he’d gotten into a tiff with some cute thing across the lake—“ Bob taps the back of his hand against his wife’s thigh and she changes subject without missing a beat, “— But I love meeting Jack’s friends! In case anyone gives you trouble, just say you’re my assistant or something. They don’t check.”

Bitty takes the keychain gingerly, unsure of the morality of taking a security device from an inebriated celebrity, but if it means not getting arrested and being able to have a heart to heart with Jack, he’ll abuse the privilege.

“Thank you, Mrs. Zimmermann,” Bitty offers. “Mr. Jack’s Dad.”

Bob doesn't open his eyes, but he does crack a smile.

* * *

Alicia’s directions weren’t completely accurate, as it wasn’t a right at the first set of stairs from the pool, it was the second, so Bitty ends up tip-toeing through an ornamental garden to get back on the right path before encountering a small village of log cabins surrounded by a privacy fence. When Bitty finds the door, the fob beeps and the lock unlatches, allowing him onto a wooden walkway that weaves through the buildings. Bungalow 3 is a respectably sized cabin overlooking the lake, surrounded by old growth trees that seems to be positioned for maximum privacy. Bitty climbs the steps, wary of creaking, and knocks on the heavy wood door, wincing at the echoing thud of his fist.

 _“Just a minute.”_ Comes from inside, and Bitty shifts awkwardly waiting for Jack. When the door cracks open, warm light spills out onto the small porch, enough to momentarily blind Bitty, who’s spent the last forty-five minutes navigating dark forest and the dim twilight.

“Bittle?”

“Hi Jack.”

Jack throws open to door and Bitty is treated to the sight of his captain in a faded Habs tee and a pair of dark blue boxer-briefs. Bitty was hoping he’d get to see the version of Jack he’s been canoodling with for the past few days, but instead he’s getting Captain Jack, and Bitty has no one but himself to blame.

“How did you get over here?”

Bitty contemplates lying but decides that miscommunication got them to this point so it’s probably better to be honest. He pulls the fob from his pocket and offers it to Jack, who takes it warily.

“Your mom gave this to me.”

“You talked to my parents?”

“Not really? Your mom was, um, intoxicated? She called me Brittle. Also cute.”

Jack looks up, over Bitty’s eye-line as if searching for his parents, and sighs. “That tracks,” he admits, stepping aside for Bitty to come in. “What’s up?”

Bitty takes a beat to look around the small, well appointed room, not much bigger than his own cabin at Sweetgum, but infinitely more luxurious with a rustic log bed and overstuffed leather chairs around a small working fireplace. A peek around a stone half-wall reveals an oversized jacuzzi tub with a view of the lake.

“You are really roughing it, aren’t you?” Bitty chirps. “Slumming it at Sweetgum? Getting in touch with your inner middle schooler?”

“Not the nicest place I’ve stayed in, but it’ll do,” Jack plays along, though his tone is guarded. “You want a beer or something?”

“No, I’m good, I just wanted to apologize,” Bitty starts, wincing at his own phrasing. “No, I don’t want to apologize, I want to clarify something.”

“Okay?” The familiar furrow between Jack’s brows has returned.

“Jack, I like kissing you. A lot. I’d like to keep doing it, but I don’t want to keep kissing you if there’s an arbitrary expiration date on our relationship,” Bitty looks down at his dirty hiking shoes, composing himself, because somehow this conversation is more difficult than the one they’d stumbled into earlier, and he wants to say the right thing.

“I don’t want to lose any more first-times to someone who doesn’t really want to care about me.” Bitty says firmly. “I don’t want something so important to me to be something you’re ashamed of in ten years.”

“Bitty.”

Jack takes a step forward, then another, and when Bitty finds the courage to look up, Jack’s right up in his personal space, face slack with that same wounded expression as he reaches up to draw Bitty into a soft kiss that bears little resemblance to their frantic make-out session earlier in the day.

“I care,” Jack breathes when they part, stealing another peck while Bitty is too dazed to resist. “ _Merde_ , Bittle, I care about you so much — I’ve thought about this all year, I convinced my parents to come back because I knew you’d be here and wanted to do this right, not like last time. I didn’t think — ”

“You called it a fling,” Bitty breathes, horrified to hear his voice wavering on the edge of tears. “Flings aren’t supposed to mean anything.”

“If I called it that you could take the out if you changed your mind,” Jack chuffs, tugging Bitty to his chest, and Bitty scrambles to hug back. “In case you decided to forget the whole thing, or you got back to Samwell and decided you hated me.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Bitty buries his face against the soft fabric of Jack’s shirt. “Something short and meaningless. I like you a whole lot, Jack, and it’s gonna be real hard to stop liking you if this goes any further.”

Jack rests his cheek against Bitty’s hair, running his hands along Bitty’s back. “I’m sorry I made you feel like this wasn’t important to me,” Jack apologizes. “This decision was . . . not taken lightly. I promise.”

The stand together for a few moments, Bitty sniffling to keep from crying, Jack clutching him close, peppering kisses to his hair and making the occasional soothing sound as Bitty pulls himself together.

“I have to go back,” Bitty runs his fingers along Jack’s waist, decidedly not looking at the plush king bed. “I have a job.”

“I don’t.” Jack supplies, without humor or malice, just as an observational fact. “Can I walk you back? It’s dark.”

“Only halfway. If anyone sees me coming out of the trees with you in tow, it’s over.”

Though they’ve effectively ended their conversation, Bitty doesn’t let go. Jack doesn’t either.

“Bitty? Do you _want_ to stay?”

“I can’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The implication is clear. Bitty balls his fist and bounces it gently on Jack’s chest. Once. Twice. Trying to find the words because he wants to stay. God, does he want to stay.

“I need to be back by midnight,” Bitty admits, knowing full well it’s barely ten and that’s a hell of a lot of time to get into some serious mischief, the thought already sending blood south.

“See.”

“Stop coercing me.”

Jack leans in for another kiss, this time holding Bitty’s chin and coaxing open his mouth and brushing Bitty’s tongue with his own. Bitty’s still getting used to the sensation, really. It’s hot, but if he thinks too hard about the mechanics he trips himself up.

“Stop letting yourself be coerced,” Jack counters, pulling back to nip at Bitty’s bottom lip. “What would you like to do. Tell me and we’ll make it happen.”

Bitty hesitates.

“I’m not experienced.”

“Got that.”

“Oh, hush.”

Bitty looks around the room, at the bed, at the oversized tub that could easily fit them both, then he sees the large, river-rock shower stall in the bathroom. Jack follows his gaze.

“We’ve showered together,” Jack points out, just shy of bemused. “Several dozen times.”

“Not like this!” Bitty scoffs. “I’ve seen you naked, but not in a . . . _sexy_ situation.”

“Is this a sexy situation? How would you know if you’ve never been in a sexy situation before?”

“Swear to god, you keep chirping I’m leaving.”

Jack laughs, stepping back to announce, “I think I’m going to wash off. If only there was someone who could help me scrub down all of my toned, proportionate muscles earned through years of supervised training. . .If only there was some wicked hot winger who no longer has contact issues that could assist me.”

Jack starts moving toward the bathroom, slowly stripping off his night shirt, pretending to be startled when he sees Bitty.

“Oh! Bittle, I did not see you there. Perhaps you can help me.”

“How is this so attractive?” Bitty laughs, trying to get air back into his lungs as he laughs. “You’re not even trying!”

“I’m really not,” Jack breaks tone for a moment, throwing a wink Bitty’s direction as he drops his shirt and eases the waistband of his underwear down enough to show off the deep-v of his hips. “But do you feel better?”

Bitty nods, covering his face briefly before spreading his fingers wide to see the next phase of Jack’s bizarre strip tease, but he’s already in the bathroom fussing with the shower.

“What do you want me to do?” Bitty calls out.

“Get naked? I guess? You could wear your clothes but you’re gonna get wet —“

That’s all the prompting he needs. Bitty toes off his shoes and socks by the door, pulls off his shirt and pads to the bathroom in his shorts to find himself confronted by Jack’s bare ass while the man waits for the water to warm up. It’s too easy to reach over and pinch one round cheek, causing the man to startle.

“What,” Bitty tries to play dumb when Jack shoots him a look over his shoulder, “thought that we were having fun?”

“Holster says I’ve got the backend of a horse,” Jack grouses, waving his hand under the spray and finding it suitable. “Mostly because he whipped me with a towel last year and I kicked him so hard he was on IR for a week.”

“Yeah? You going to kick me, hon?”

Jack’s lips quirk slyly, and Bitty finds himself grinning back, realizing that Jack’s not turning to face him, and there’s probably a good reason why.

“You’re still dressed.” Jack says, stepping into the glass and stone stall to duck his head under the water, pointedly not looking at Bitty. “Cold feet?”

“No, just thought you’d like to see me undress.”

Jack scrubs a hand over his face and up into his hair, pushing the finger back to get a good look at Bitty; even through the quickly fogging glass, Bitty can see the _want_ in his eyes.

“Considerate,” Jack holds eye contact for a moment, making Bitty feel like a prey animal, and Bitty undoes the button on his fly. Jack’s attention shifts, Bitty slides down his shorts, then his briefs, and steps into the stall. Face to face with Jack, the other man doesn’t move, waiting on Bitty to take the lead.

“This is a nice bathroom.” Bitty says, not allowing himself to look below Jack’s waist.

“It is. This thing’s a steam shower, too.”

“Neat.”

They stand under the water for a few seconds more. Bitty lifts his hand to Jack’s chest, Jack rests his own on Bitty’s hips, and when Bitty leans in, Jack’s ready; lips crashing together with a click of teeth that would normally have Bitty wincing, but that isn’t the energy of the moment.

Pressed against Jack’s body, all slick skin and firm muscle, it’s too easy for Bitty to widen his stance, allowing one of Jack’s thick thighs to press against his groin. Bitty doesn’t gasp, but it’s a near thing, and Jack swallows the sound with another feverish kiss, and that’s when Bitty feels something hard pressing against him

Bitty’s never seen Jack erect. He’s not sure he’s even imagined what it might look like until very recently, but what Bitty definitely never thought might be an issue was their height difference and the length of Jack’s torso. Jack’s erection, pink and heavy, bobs a solid three inches above Bitty’s own, nearly brushing Bitty’s stomach. Not only that, he’s thicker than expected. Mutual masturbation may not be an easy a task as he was hoping.

“You’re thinking,” Jack says, voice muffled slightly by the multiple shower-heads around them. “What’s wrong.”

“You’re just . . . Do I need to get on my tip-toes?” Bitty asks, before trying just that and gasping at the sensation of bumping himself against his partner. Jack laughs, reaching out quickly to steady him.

“I got it. Handjobs?”

“I don’t know. Yes? That’s easy to start.”

“Easy, yes, the most fun, no.” Jack looks up into the spray, opens his mouth to gather some water and imediately spits it onto Bitty’s face.

“WHY.” Bitty sputters. “Gross!”

Jack grins, mouth still open as he cants his head up to gather more water and swish before spitting down the drain. Then, Jack rests his hand on Bitty’s shoulders, leans in for a quick kiss, and eases onto his knees, putting himself eye level with Bitty’s groin. “You good?” Jack asks, steam filling the gaps around them where there isn’t water falling.

“Y-yeah.” Bitty nods, heart in his throat because there’s a man on his knees before him who seems fully intent on doing something indecent and wonderful. Bitty smacks a hand against the rocks to brace himself as Jack takes him into his mouth, resting the other on Jack’s wet hair, the sensation so wholly unfamiliar and so blindingly pleasurable Bitty knows immediately he’s not going to last long enough to be anything but a joke.

“Jack, I can’t — “

Jack pulls off, giving Bitty a few quick tugs that absolutely do not help the problem at hand.

“First blowjob, Bittle. You’re not supposed to last long. No worries, we’ll go again in twenty, just enjoy.”

The thought of doing this all again in short order sends a frisson of bliss up Bitty’s spine as Jack returns to his task, tongue flexing along Bitty’s shaft as Jack’s free hand cradles his balls. Bitty forces himself to hang on for another minute or so, but he stops fighting and shudders to completion when Jack runs a firm finger along his perineum, just barely grazing his hole.

Jack stands, hands dancing along Bitty’s flushed skin until he’s upright enough to gargle another mouthful of water.

“That bad, huh?” Bitty pants, leaning into Jack’s chest, blissed out enough he doesn’t care Jack’s still hard cock is brushing incessantly against Bitty’s hip. Without thinking, Bitty wraps his hand around Jack and squeezes gently, familiarizing himself with an erection that isn’t his own.

“Not bad at all,” Jack grunts. “Just didn’t want to gross you out when we kissed.”

Under his hand, Bitty can feel Jack’s body tense. “You’re not gonna last long either,” Bitty realizes, watching Jack bite his lip as Bitty speeds his strokes.

“Yeah, you’re . . . really good at this.” Jack pants, gripping Bitty’s free arm tightly. “Can you . . .tighter? Please?”

Bitty pulls Jack down into another kiss and clenches his fist, causing Jack’s hip to buck. Faces pressed close, Bitty can hear every groan and whine as he brings Jack to completion, so lost in Jack’s pleasure-slack expression that he completely misses Jack’s orgasm, the water having carried every trace away before he’s finished twitching in Bitty’s hand.

They stand under the spray a few minutes longer, leaning close, swaying tiredly under the warm, gentle water until Jack asks, “You sure you can’t stay the night? What are they gonna do, fire you?”

“Yes, Sugar,” Bitty sighs, cheek pressed between Jack’s warm pecs. “They’ll fire me, and I’ll be a cautionary tale for the next thirty summers.”

Jack curses and turns off the water, leaving them naked and dripping, immediately chilled, which does nothing to reignite Bitty’s libido, badly as he wants to flop onto the bed for round two.

“I really liked that,” Bitty says as Jack collects a robe for him. “Thank you.”

“It’s been a while,” Jack cracks an embarrassed smile. “Glad I can still bring it home.”

Jack probably didn’t mean to regurgitate a line from many a presser, and Bitty doesn’t mean to laugh, but he can’t help it, laughing at the awkwardness, laughing at his first sexual experience with another man, laughing at the other man, laughing at himself — and Jack doesn’t seem offended in the least, wrapping Bitty in the soft, white cotton robe and stealing one kiss. Then another. Then another.

* * *

* * *

Holster and Jack are on the porch arguing when Bitty’s Uber rolls up to the Haus, and if there’s one thing Bitty can say about his captain, it’s that Jack’s poker face is incredible and they need to get to Vegas immediately.

“Hey, Bittle.” Jack greets when he sees Bitty pulling boxes out of the trunk. “Watch out for water, Holster was fucking around with the pipes again.”

Holster gives Jack a shove and Bitty finds himself dancing away from his wrestling teammates, trying not to fumble a box of vintage bake-wear in the process.

“I wasn’t ‘ _fucking with le pipes_ ’ you fuck! You flushed when I was in the shower!”

If Bitty hadn’t just spent so much of the summer learning the subtleties of his Captain, he’d miss the considerate way Jack braces his feet and holds Holster away from the doorway, leaving space for Bitty to duck under his arm and safely enter the Haus. Halfway up the stairs, Bitty looks back at the boys, and catches Jack just in time to see him wink.

* * *

Bitty’s nearly done unloading his suitcase when a soft knock draws his attention to Jack hovering in the hallway.

“Bittle.”

“Zimmermann.” Bitty returns, tamping down the fluttering in his stomach aa Jack slips inside, easing the door shut to keep from alerting any of the other boys; not that anyone would be able to hear them talking over raucous noises coming from the attic as Ransom and Holster rearrange their sparse furniture. Jack looks up.

“Yeah, you’ll get used to that. Or you won’t. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about —“

Bitty pushes Jack back against the door and kisses him, cutting off the rest of his sentence. For a moment Jack doesn’t react and Bitty wonders if he’s misstepped; but Jack soon rallies and tugs close, running his hand up the back of Bitty’s scalp to hold him tight until they’re both red-faced and panting.

“I was going to say we should talk about how we’re handling your training this season,” Jack says huskily, “and about how you’re recovering, but this works, too.”

“Oh,” Bitty laughs, touched at the concern. “I’m okay. Need to talk to Hall and meet with the PT guys again but I know I’m good. I’m ready.”

“Sick.” Jack grabs Bitty’s head like they’re on the ice and going to bump helmets, but instead he presses a firm kiss to the center of Bitty’s forehead. “You gotta take care of your brain.”

“I thought you meant we were going to talk about us, too?”

“Oh. You answered that when you kissed me,” Jack says. “We just have to be discreet, eh? Don’t want to end up in The Swallow.”

“Or TMZ.” Bitty whispers.

“Or TMZ.” Jack amends, reaching up to cup Bitty’s face in his palms, offering a genuine smile that softens his features in a way Bitty’s quickly learned to love. “This is going to be a great year. I can feel it.”


End file.
